


Of Wives And Of Women

by elvntari



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Gen, Post-Darkening of Valinor, Post-doom of the Noldor, Tumblr: legendariumladiesapril, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-21 16:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Characters studies of the wives and daughters of the house of Finwe. Yes, the title is a dumb Hamilton reference- it worked, okay.For Legendarium ladies april!





	1. Nerdanel.

_Fëanor._

What is it to love a flame? It flickers and burns bright, it gives you warmth and lights your way, its hot passion maintains you, but it can destroy you if you aren’t careful. If the fuel is too close, and that which it thrives on is running low, it has to jump to survive. But a perfect companion is hard to come across, and if that companion happens to be a wildfire, so be it.

I loved him once, and I suppose I love him still, but that love grew wild and burned hot, and my heart was left scorched and tender. He does not mean the things he says, but the fire has to go somewhere, and after everyone else is gone, it must come to me, for he would never hurt our sons intentionally.

_Our sons._

That is not to say he has not caused them harm unintentionally. He was so intense, and so overprotective- poured so much energy into them one day, and then vanished into his work-room for hours the next. And they always asked me why, and I had to tell them about the wildfire in his soul- the fire that he had passed down to them.

They ask me what I gave them. And I tell them: I gave you patience, I hope. And some of them I did; to some of them I passed on patience and wisdom; to others I passed on my worker’s hands, or my eyes, or my tenderness, my beauty, my love…and then it’s Fëanáro’s words echoing around my head again, telling me things I don’t believe over and over in the hope that someday I will.

He tells me he fell for me because of my mind, and then because of my beauty. He tries to convince me of my beauty, as if it’s something that matters. I tell him my mind is my pride- my work is my passion. He tells me we are kindred spirits, but I am no furnace.

_My work._

He would not approve of the sculptures I make now; his step-mother, his sisters, _my friends._ I think about when my studio was filled over and over with busts of him, busts of our children, busts of his mother- only the people he cared for. I remembered how he would kiss me in front of all of those stone eyes.

But I revel in this- the sharp knock of the chisel against the marble, the feeling of scraping clay out from underneath my fingernails, the sensation of tracing my fingertips over new features, new faces. I sculpt the Valar then, in a fit of rage (so unlike me), I split all of their faces in two. I realise the great potential I contain within myself for anger.

While they are gone, I finally become myself.

I do not regret them, but I was so young that I had yet to discover my truest self.

And now she is here.

For the first time, I sculpt the form of my own face.

_Nerdanel._


	2. Anairë.

_Flight_.

I am no devotee to my husband’s bad decisions; I can see the storm from a mile away, so I stay indoors. I stay where I am safe, I stay where I know I can see the people I love again. The truth is, I could feel this since the first day- the weight of what was to come heavy upon my breast as my suckled for the first time. His father is a good man, but he is a better one, and he wishes to go.

Unfortunately, I am no good woman- I am not to be bound to their fates.

 _Fate_.

I have always known that I will have to walk my path alone; my family was simply a detour to another town, a rest, before I continue my parallel journey, waiting for the day to come when my prayers are rejected and my bruised and scraped knees stand for nothing against the sins of my blood.

 _Faith_.

At first, it’s the three of us in prayer, but _she_ leaves before she can even mouth a single line of hymn- I don’t blame her, after all, I don’t think she was ever conventional, but I am intrigued by her. I follow her to her studio sometimes- watch her from the doorway and know that I should have her reported for the kinds of obscenities she screams as she works, but instead I find them weaving their way into my head.

I am a pious woman, they reassure me, so I won’t be in any trouble- my blood are saints, they say. I do not believe them. I know my children, and I know that they have always been selfish- that every move is a calculated attempt at the best personal outcome. But I also know that they are driven by compassion in a way that I have seen so few others move.

Your sons were heroes- your daughter was a martyr, they tell me, but I do not listen.

I do not listen because _they_ are the ones who tell me, and I have long stopped paying heed to _their_ messages. They hide the gruesome and want me to idolise the servants of their favour, but they have miscalculated, because my children are no servants, nor am I.

I am no devotee.

 _Anairë_.


End file.
